


Etched in Stone

by emmaliza



Category: Take That (Band)
Genre: (briefly) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - 19th Century, Fish out of Water, Inspired by Pygmalion and Galatea (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Mythology References, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Prostitution, Sculpture, Voyeurism, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-07-28 15:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20065936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Gary's roommate, Mark, brings a statue to life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I've had this AU idea in my head awhile, based entirely off Gary's habit of calling Howard a "greek god", and was suddenly inspired to put it into words. May or may not get more chapters later, depending on how I feel.

Sharing rooms with Mark has long since been strange. _Mark_ is strange. Or perhaps, in a funny way, it is Gary who's strange, for being so very ordinary. He knows he and his piano do not exactly fit in Mark's circles, bohemian types who speak of the ancients in one breath and the rebellions in Germany in the other. But while Gary is as penniless an artist as any of them, he's not that sort of man. Even in this new city, he still lives in the echoes of simple village life.

Sometimes, though he would never say so out loud, he envies Mark's liberated ways. Mark has a different girl in his bed every other night, and more than a few men there too. Were Gary back in Frodsham, he would scandalised, but well, that is what artists do. He knows Mark is no atheist, he is at confession more weeks than not - to be fair, he has a lot to confess - but sin seems the least of his concerns in life.

Mark seems fond of his steadfast staidness, usually greeting the stammering and embarrassment with a laugh and a kiss on the cheek. More than once Gary has turned pink beneath his lips, and wonders if he should ask... If he should offer...

But he has always cowered from it. Mark is as beautiful as Ganymede, and Gary knows he is no Jupiter. He is not so unafraid of the threat of hellfire. Besides, he hardly knows what it is he'd be offering.

Speaking of the Greeks, Mark has decided his new medium is sculpture. Gary has no clue where he got the money for a hunk of marble, nor how he got it into his room, but Gary can't help but watch admiringly as he carves life from nothing. "He's beautiful," he whispers as Mark etches a face into the rock, and then blushes to realise he said that aloud.

"He's meant to be," Mark says, not missing a beat. "He's supposed to be Apollo, or Hercules. I haven't decided yet."

The further Mark gets in his project, the less Gary can bring himself to tear his eyes from it, and the more uncomfortable he grows with that fact. He watches as Mark transforms stone into this god, this hero, this beauty, full of muscles that bulge with power and with wide eyes that Gary's sure, were they coloured, would be a piercing blue. He knows the statue isn't real. but that doesn't make him feel any less guilty for the way he looks at it.

One night he comes home from the club he plays at for a few shillings a week, full of gruff men from the factories, with a touch too much ale in him. The sculpture is almost complete, needs only a little more polish, and stands proud in the midst of their living quarters. Gary cannot help himself. He approaches the statue slowly, reverently, far too much like a worshiper approaching their god.

He can't say why the statue enthralls him so much. Perhaps it's just that he is there, in Gary's home, so shamelessly on display. Gary could not escape him if he wanted to. Gary runs his hands across his shoulders, broad and strong enough to carry the heavens. They are cold and hard to touch. He shivers. He wishes they were warm. He wishes he could feel them around him.

His hands move south down the arms, and then across to the abdomen, muscles carved of marble. Gary traces the creases with one finger, and feels an odd sad twinge that he could never look like this. Still, he has often wondered what exactly Mark does when the men in his bed, the word buggery seeming too ugly for him ever to associate it with his lovely colleague. This man though, Gary can imagine simply kissing him, kissing him for days, from his lips to his belly and right down to the head of his prick.

Gary flushes red to find himself staring at that. Mark has definitely carved it much bigger than the Greeks would have, and wonders if he has chosen that to his own taste. It juts out obscenely, like a soldier's spear. It looks like it could hurt him. It looks like it could ruin him. And God, he wants it to.

He almost has his hand wrapped around it before he realises what he's doing. _What is the matter with you, you mad pervert? Isn't it enough to lust after men? He's not even real!_Disgusted with himself, Gary forces himself away, heads up to bed. For once Mark seems to be alone on the other side of the wall, which is a relief. He ignores the throbbing between his legs as he drifts off to an uneasy sleep, but he cannot ignore the way he dreams, of a man just like the statue, but with long dark hair and eyes like sapphires.

When he wakes at dawn, he heads downstairs for tea and toast. And in their kitchen stands a man, tall and handsome, and naked as a babe. He turns around and smiles at Gary, catching him with eyes as blue as the sea.

"'Ello," says the statue, his voice not Greek at all, but just like Gary's, "I know you."


	2. Chapter 2

Mark has always dreamed of fanciful things. _Head full of clouds, that one,_ his mother used to say, before he left their home to make a living as an artist in the big city – albeit, not much of one. He never minded, always found living in dreams more interesting than what seemed set out for him.

However, it's one thing to have fantasies, and yet another to walk in on one of those come to life.

When he first enters the kitchen in the morning and sees his statue casually sat at the table and having breakfast, he assumes he must be dreaming. Then he walks straight into the cabinet and puts a stop to assumption. He stares, dumbfounded, until he realises Gary is also there and meets his eye. Gary looks just as bamboozled as he is.

And the statue quietly chews a piece of toast.

“Hello?” Mark whispers, not sure what to do.

Gary's nostrils flare. “Mark, what did you _do_?”

Mark jumps. He knows Gary has a temper, but he's never accused Mark of anything before (even when, sometimes, Mark thinks he should). “I didn't do anything,” he insists, with another skeptical look toward what was once a hunk of marble. “What happened?”

The statue pauses, halfway through his toast. “Sorry,” he mumbles, eyes – blue as the sea, and Mark knows he could never have painted them like that – dropping down toward the table bashfully. “Am I a problem?”

“What? No, no, of course not.” Despite his utter bewilderment at the circumstances, and the fact that practically, he knows he and Gary have barely enough to feed and house themselves, a third mouth out of nowhere will be a terror, Mark can't bear the thought of upsetting this innocent creature – one he brought to life, somehow, and so it is his responsibility to take care of. “This is just strange, that's all. Who are you? Where did you come from?”

“...I'm not sure,” says the statue, a frown upon his chiseled visage. “I don't remember much. I remember... you sculpting me, making me. And then – well,” he pauses. “_Something_ brought me to life, anyway.”

Mark looks up at Gary, who turns pink and averts his eyes. When he looks back to the statue, he almost looks like he's smirking. _They're not telling me something_, which is not a feeling he has very often. It makes him uneasy. “Well, nevermind,” he says, because he doubts he will get any more answers to this question, no matter how much he asks. He has always believed in the magical side of life. “But who are you? I mean, what should we call you?”

The statue looks no less bewildered by that. “You kept trying to give me names,” he says. “But none of them felt right.”

“I know,” Mark frowns. He never could decide just which god or hero his creation was meant to be. It seems he is none of them – just a simple man. His voice would fit right in at the factories outside.

“Well, we have to call you something,” Gary points out. “Or should we just name you after the street?”

“Depends on the street,” says the statue. “Where am I anyway?”

And seeking that discovery, he gets to his feet, searching for a place to put this to. Still as nude as when Mark first carved him. Ah.

“Wait!” Mark calls just before the statue makes it to the door. “You need to put some clothes on. You'll catch your death.”

That's not quite the reason. Mark can't keep from sneaking a glance toward Gary, red as a pomegranate and carefully keeping his eyes away from the statue's exquisite physique. Mark regrets having been quite so indulgent when sculpting. Gary is so very innocent in so many ways, and he has always found that endearing (and felt quite guilty for having so many thoughts of corrupting him). But he does see the way Gary looks at this thing he crafted, to the best of his ability, to be the epitome of male beauty, and it makes him very, very uneasy indeed.

“Death?” asks the statue, blue eyes big and frighten. Mark curses under his breath. Of course, he won't understand many adages. He probably barely knows what death is. They'll have to speak carefully.

“No, you won't die, necessarily,” he says. “But you will get cold, and maybe sick. If you were out there too long, you could die.” He pauses. “Do you feel the cold?”

The statue blinks. “I don't know,” he says, which seems to be the case for many things. “I don't know what that would feel like.”

“Clearly he doesn't,” mutters Gary, with only a fleeting glance toward the statue's body. “He's been walking around like that all morning. But you have to wear clothes anyway, I'm afraid.”

“Why?”

Gary and Mark share a look. Mark has oft wondered, honestly. “That's just the way things are,” he says, not caring to explain the theology of it right now. “Come, we'll get you dressed, pick a name for you–”

And just then, there's a knock on the door.


	3. Chapter 3

They stop and stare at each other, wondering what to do. They still having this living statue in the front room, who they have not gotten dressed yet, and how on earth are they supposed to explain this to visitors? Gary turns to Mark, who seems just as bewildered as himself, and then to the statue.

And for a second, he thinks all their problems are solved, because the statue is so still you'd think he'd turned back to stone.

The knocking comes again. “Mark?!” asks a questioning voice. Gary huffs in irritation. Robert. Of course it's Robert. Robert is Mark's very best friend, has been since they were boys, and is always inviting himself into their rooms. Gary has never quite seen eye-to-eye with him, but that's neither here nor there. The issue is, Robert has chosen now of all times to show up, and that cannot possibly end well. “Are you going to let me in or not?”

“In a second!” Mark calls out desperately, before turning to the statue. “Hey, it's alright,” he whispers, and Gary suddenly realises their statue is shaking. Robert might turn up all hours of the day, but it seems he does not do so enough. The statue doesn't know what a knock at the door means. He's frightened. “That's a friend of mine. He only wants to come inside.”

“Patience, Rob,” comes another voice from outside their door. Gary sighs. Jason. Jason is Mark's other bohemian friend; an aspiring philosopher. He and Rob live together the same way he and Mark do, despite the fact they often seem ready to kill each other. Jason is generally less of a nuisance than Robert, but he is an incurably thoughtful man, and he will, if he gets the slightest inkling of their current strange circumstances, have a million questions. Gary doesn't think any of them – him, Mark, or the statue – are ready for that yet.

Rob scoffs loudly. "He should have thought of that before he gave me the key." And Gary gives Mark, who is suitably bashful, a panicked look. _He never told me he gave him a key!_ There's no escaping then; the statue is still shaking when the door swings open and...

"Come on, Mark, this isn't like you. you're usually willing to talk to us no matter who you've had in your bed, what's-" Rob stops as he walks into the living room, spots the strange naked man there. "Hello. Who's this then?"

He looks at the statue, who he clearly expects to introduce himself, as any man would do. The statue's mouth drops open, but he doesn't say anything, he can't. He looks at Mark again and simultaneously, they both realise it is up to them to take care of the creature they've created.

"Howard," Gary blurts out at the exact same moment Mark says: "Donald."

Rob looks puzzled, and the statue - Howard, Gary supposes he's christened him now - coughs uncomfortably. "Howard Donald," he says, his voice soft, but impressively steady.

"Hello." Gary knows Robert has never been one to show fear, and so he grins impressively. "Robert Williams," he says, and extends his hand.

Howard looks toward Mark. He doesn't know what that means. Mark nods at him, encouraging, but he can't quite say aloud what a handshake is - not if he doesn't want to give away the strangeness of what is happening to him. Awkwardly, Howard reaches forth to wrap his fingers over Robert's knuckles. He looks to Gary, hoping he's gotten it right. He doesn't have time to respond properly before Rob pulls his hand away, puzzled by their guest's oddness.

"I'm sorry," Jason says, catching everyone's attention. "Were we interrupting?" He gives a look all over Howard's body, which makes Gary remember - christ, their statue is still as nude as when he was sculpted. He turns red. How are they meant to explain that?

"What? No," says Mark. "No, we were just..."

But he trails off, because what explanation could they possibly give? Jason ignores him anyhow. "I'm Jason Orange," he introduces himself to this stranger, because what reason does he have to find anything amiss? "Are you a friend of Mark's then?" Silence. The statue - Howard - looks like he's struggling for words. "How did you lot meet?"

And like that, Howard starts cry.

It takes Jason by surprise, and instinctively he goes forward to try and comfort this man, before he remembers he does not know him at all. "Hey, hey." Mark leaps up to take his place, winding an arm around the strong shoulders he sculpted as the tears start to pour down their Howard's face. "It's okay. Come on, let me get some clothes on you." He guides Howard out of the room and back to their bedchambers, leaving Gary alone with Jason and Rob. _Oh. Brilliant._

"Is his father an MP or something?" Rob asks, startling Gary. "Why is he acting like that? We're not that frightening."

Gary's face turns pink. "What? No, it's nothing like that. It's just..." But no, no matter what he's afraid they might think of him, he can't just tell them the truth. They'd think him mad. "It's all very complicated. Would you mind not asking questions?"

Jason nudges Robert in the side. "Come on, we should go."

Rob looks less than convinced, but after Jason gives him a very stern look, he sighs. "Fine."

As they head to the door, however, Robert stops, turns, and gives him one last grimace. "For whatever it's worth, Gary, you should know," he says, "that you're a terrible liar."


	4. Chapter 4

The statue - Howard, Mark supposes they've dubbed him - sits on the edge of Mark's bed, tears rolling down his cheeks without shame. Mark watches in horror in bewilderment. He loves both Rob and Jason, and perhaps foolishly, he thought the being he made must do too. Why did they disturb him so?

"What's wrong?" whispers.

Howard stops, and by instinct, wipes the water from his eyes. "Sorry. I didn't mean to cause such a fuss. I just... they frightened me, that's all."

Mark frowns. "They're my friends. I'm sure they would never hurt you." Indeed, Rob and Jason would be more excited to explore this mystery than anyone he knows. Then again, that may well be a good enough reason to be frightened.

"I know, I'm not scared of that. They just asked so many questions." He says the word like it's profane. "That's what you lot do, ask questions. Who are you, what do you do, where do you come from? And I don't know! I don't know any of it!"

"Shush, it's alright!" Mark reaches out and grabs the statue - the man - by the shoulders, before the hysteria overwhelms him. "Well figure it out, I promise you. You won't have to do this alone."

As if on cue, Gary pokes his head through the door. "How is he?"

Howard takes a heavy breath. "I'll be fine," he says. "This is all a lot for me." Mark feels a twinge of guilt. From the look he sees on Gary's face when he looks at him, he knows he feels the same. They've both been bewildered by this strange miracle that has happened, but they can't begin to understand how bizarre it must be for...

"They asked my name," says Howard. "I don't even have a name."

"Sure you do," Mark insists before he's fully thought it through. "We just gave you one."

Howard raises an eyebrow. "You gave me two," he points out. "Where did those come from anyway?"

He and Gary share a look. Mark can think of nothing else to do but answer honestly. "I met this Scottish bloke once," he mumbles. It feels silly, now he has to think about it.

"Mr. Howard owns the local factory," says Gary. "And most men have two names, if not more. I assumed you'd use one as your family name, one as your Christian."

Howard looks puzzled by these concepts. "You can pick another if you like," Mark adds.

"No, no, I like the names," says Howard, with a bit of a smile. "And besides, let's not confuse your friends any further."

Gary chuckles while Mark takes a step back. He abruptly remembers that Howard is still naked. It's not like him to be bashful about such a thing, but he realises how vulnerable the man is, and his being nude only makes him more so.

"I should get some clothes on you," he says, hurriedly grabbing the most generous clothes he owns.

Hesitantly, Gary sits next to Howard on the bed. "To be far, I feel like we could have come up with something more elegant." He nudges Howard's bare shoulder with his own. "For a man as handsome as you."

Mark stops, garments in arm. Gary is usually the type that can hardly talk to a pretty girl, would never tell her so except in verse. Of course, Howard is no girl - Mark saw to that - but the point remains. He does not think he's ever heard Gary tell someone he likes the way they look so easily before.

Something burns in his belly, almost like jealousy.

Howard's marble cheeks turn pink. Gary gives Mark a look, and Mark is drawn back to reality - if reality is a good word for what they're living - to bitterly admonish himself for the way his mind has wandered. He has nothing to be jealous of. Gary has done nothing but state what's plainly obvious: Howard is very handsome. He probably doesn't mean anything by it, and if he did, Mark would have no right to be mad. Gary is his friend, nothing else, and he has no reason to believe he ever could be.

And he owes this statue far too much to get caught up in his petty jealousy now. "Here." Gently, he pushes his most generous shirt and trousers into Howard's lap, hoping they'll fit. They don't have the money for new clothes. He sits down on the other side of him, winds and arm around his broad shoulders, knuckles barely brushing the side of Gary's neck. "We're going to get through this, you see."


	5. Chapter 5

It is an adjustment, after that, learning to live with another person in their midst, this strangest of strangers. There is so much to be learned, figured, exacted, on both their parts – in many ways Howard is like a child they must raise, but in others he is like an angel come to Earth, and it is their duty to learn from him. Gary does not know.

In truth, a great deal of his struggle is to simply _live_ with the man, this embodiment of all he desperately tells himself he should not want, now he is not just stone but flesh and blood, and he could, in theory, warm Gary's bed if only Gary asked him to.

But Gary shan't do that. He does not want to defile himself, nor the innocent who is, after all, under their care. He came too close when Howard was only marble.

He writes more songs in two weeks with Howard than he has done in two years previous. He can't help himself. The man is like an itch under his skin – his sculpted body, his handsome face, his shy, sweet, funny character. That's the thing. Howard could be just a sculpture brought to life, but he is evermore becoming a person. He is still reserved, afraid of this world he does not really understand, but he's learning. He learns through Mark and Gary both, teasing at their foibles and follies – but Gary does not mind, because the thought he is Howard's whole world does a terrible, wonderful thing to him he can't explain. Howard does wear clothes now, if only for appearance's sake, but Gary knows he does not see the point of them. And they are _their_ clothes, too small and too tight, they do nothing to conceal the figure driving Gary mad – sometimes he thinks he will just tear them off, and relieve them both.

Howard likes to watch him work though. “That's pretty,” he says as Gary plucks at his piano, and the compliment warms Gary's chest, although he knows Howard hardly knows any other music to compare him to. “Romantic.”

It turns Gary pink. He does not know what is more frightening: the part of him that just wants to go to bed with Howard, or the part if him that wants to court him like a lady first.

Speaking of beds, he has to sleep somewhere, as it's quickly agreed that he should sleep in Mark's rooms. Gary thinks Mark is trying to accommodate him, his natural prudishness and his having a job in the evenings, and so he should not be jealous. He should not imagine Mark and Howard lying in bed but inches apart, close enough to touch if they so wished. He should not remind himself that Mark has never shown any shame in desiring men, not like he feels it. That way lies madness.

Still, while he sleeps in Mark's rooms, that does not mean Howard is never in his own. “We're friends, aren't we?” Howard answers when Gary asks him why. And it's true. He and Mark are Howard's only two friends in the world. Gary can't deny him that just because he's afraid of the things the man makes him crave.

“I suppose we are,” says Gary, and Howard smiles at him so beautifully, Gary resolves they must be nothing else.

Of course, another day Howard suddenly announces: “You know, I'd take my clothes off if you asked me to.”

Gary looks up in shock, turning as red as an apple. “W-why would I want that?”

“Because you look at me like I'm not wearing them anyway,” Howard shrugs. “I don't mind.”

Gary averts his eyes, ashamed. “You should,” he mutters.

“Why?” And Gary doesn't have a good answer to that. There's much he could say, about God and propriety and society, but he doubts any of it would be much of an explanation to someone who hardly knows what any of those things are. “I know you want me.” Gary's blush deepens. He thought the shame of his lusts was something just for him to contend with, but if the object of them knows exactly what he wants – then what? “I remember how you touched me, before I was even alive.”

Gary rapidly turns from red to white. “You remember that?” he asks, staring in horror.

Howard, looking considerably less horrified, nods. “I mean, sort of. In bits in pieces. Same way I remember most things,” he pauses. “It's... odd, the time before I came to life. I remember it, but it's like a dream, you know?” And that does tell Gary something. He didn't know Howard dreamed. “Everything's all hazy and out of order, but yes, I remember. Really, it's a relief I woke when I did, I would have lost my mind otherwise.”

Sickness rises in Gary's belly, and he swallows hard. “I'm so sorry.”

“What for?”

Howard tilts his head to the side curiously, and Gary can't help but gawp in bafflement. “For what I did to you!” he says. “You were helpless, and I all but assaulted you, because of my sick lusts. I'm so sorry, if I had any idea–”

“Gary, I don't mind,” Howard cuts him off, and that leaves Gary to boggle. The man smiles fondly. “You weren't to know. Besides, I liked how you touched me.”

While Gary is thrown off-balance for a moment, Howard starts approaching him, that same smile still on his face. Slowly, a well-sculpted hand takes his own.

“It felt good, having a warm body all over me. I wanted more of it. In fact, the only thing I minded...” gently, he guides Gary's hand between his legs. “...Was when you stopped.”

Gary bites his lip. _I have his cock in my hand,_ he thinks, himself getting hard off the thought, unable to stop squeezing that obscene bulge and feeling Howard twitch and throb in his palm. He feels almost as hard as when he was made of stone.

Howard groans and arches toward his grip. “I didn't know it would do that,” he whispers. “Get hard and soft like that. Fuck, it feels so good.”

He knows this is wrong, but Gary cannot help himself anymore, he is completely lost. He stares up at that beautiful face, begging like an orphan child. “Please,” he gasps. “Take your clothes off.”

Within seconds, Howard's shirt gets thrown across the room, the man himself grinning all the while. Gary eyes the muscles revealed, and can't wait for the rest. His trousers fall in a puddle on the floor, and he threads his hands through Gary's hair. “C'mon,” he coos, “do what you want.”

Gary can't help but stare at that prick, that beautiful, terrible, huge prick Mark made him, and he wants to kiss it. So he does. He kisses it's head, and tastes salty fluid dripping into his mouth. It makes him moan.

It makes Howard moan too, a hot mouth pleasuring his most sensitive spots, and so Gary keeps doing it. He laps at that hard cock until Howard's hands curl around his neck, pulling him in deeper, until his mouth opens and Howard can slide between his lips, pushing him back and forth, using him like a back-alley whore.

He knows that it's wrong, but also, it's the best thing Gary's ever done.


	6. Chapter 6

Gary is fucking Howard.

Mark now knows this, having overheard strange noises from the other room and been concerned, peaking in to make sure he was alright. In truth, he should have known what was happening – Howard, in all his innocence, had no shame in his moaning – but Mark could not make the connection. He knows Gary, he's known Gary for years, and as far as he knows, Gary has never made love to anyone at all. Mark could never imagine it. He seemed too pure for that.

He's retreated to the living room, not wanting to be seen. He doesn't think he has to worry, though. The were absorbed in each other. Gary moaned even louder than Howard did, jaw tight against his groin, drinking him down like the gods' own nectar...

Mark runs his hands through his hair in frustration. Of course, he knows he has no right to be upset by this. He and Gary share rooms and in a way, lives, but they're not lovers. Who Gary goes to bed with is none of his concern. And he who has fucked almost everything with a pulse is hardly in any place to be shocked and appalled that Gary is not as pure as he once thought.

Besides, he knows what Howard looks like. He made him look like that. He sculpted Howard from marble to be everything he'd want to fuck, so how can he fault Gary for wanting to do the same?

A lump forms in his throat, and he knows he needs to get out of there. Without even bothering to grab his coat, he darts out into the street. There's a light drizzle about.

Tears form in his eyes. Mark knows perfectly well why he's so upset. He's upset because _he_ wants Gary. He always has done. He wants Gary, but he's always known he can never happen – Gary is too perfect and too pure, Mark assumed he'd wed and have children and all that, all the things a bohemian like him wasn't meant for, and he's learned to live with that. Gary wasn't meant for him. Mark could abide with loving him from afar.

But now what?

Cobblestones crunch under his feet and smoke fills his lungs. He almost walks into walls more than once, because he isn't looking where he's going. His blood pulses in an angry, anxious, pathetic rush.

On some level, you could thing this would not be so bad for his interests. After all, it's not like Gary has wed their statue. He's only sucked his cock. That, in and of itself, does not render him off-limits. Indeed, Mark could well take that as evidence that Gary is not as chaste as he always thought, and if he were to make an advance, it might well be welcomed. He could.

But he cannot bring himself to believe that. Gary has been with Howard, the creature he built from clay to be as desirable as any man could be. How could Mark, just a normal man, built by no-one but the creator, ever hope to compete?

Eventually, the icy winds blow through his bones and force him to seek shelter, in a dingy pub where factory workers come after their shift. It's not the one Gary plays in, thank god. Mark orders an ale, half-hoping he can obliterate his mind, although he does not have the money for that.

By his side there's a woman, with long dark hair and a low-cut gown, grinning and waving at him invitingly. Mark smiles back. He can't afford the thruppence this will cost, but he knows himself too well to think he'll resist.

He fucks her against the wall outside, water pooling about his feet, and she is hot and tight and warm, but she does nothing to get his anguish on his mind. When he pulls out to spend upon her thigh – he'd rather avoid siring a bastard if it's at all possible – he feels sick with himself. He's been with so many women, and men, rich and poor, common and noble, bad and good. He's probably riddled with disease by now. How could Gary ever want someone like him?

The woman asks he fee and Mark gives it her, heading off in no better mood than in which he came. He wonders if he should seek out Rob, for sympathy, but he doubts it. Rob is a funny man, could he understand why Mark aches? He's never liked Gary in any case.

It's almost midnight by the time he heads home, by which time he feels safe that Gary will have gone to bed. Mark cannot bear to share a dinner with him tonight. When he pokes his head through the door, sure enough, Gary is not in their living quarters – but Howard is.

Mark stops. He almost wants to shout at the man. _How dare you? _he wants to say. _I created you, you would be nothing without me, and you, with your perfect body, you Greek god, you come steal him from me?_

But he can't say that. Howard hasn't stolen anything. Gary was never his. Mark remembers the promise he made, that it is his duty to take care of the person he brought to life. Surely, it should be Howard he's concerned for.

He is concerned when he observes the way Howard has his arms wrapped around his knees, worry etched upon his face. “What's the matter?” Mark asks. Howard does not answer. “Where's Gary?”

“Said he had to work.” _Of course_, thinks Mark; Gary has to go play the clubs at absurd hours, that's the way it has always been. But the look on Howard's face tells him that's not the full story. His grip on his own legs tightens. “I think he's mad at me.”

“Why on Earth would he be mad at you?”

Howard looks up, ocean blue eyes wide with worry. “We had sex.”

Mark gulps deeply. “I know.” Howard looks surprised. He turns pink, and hurries to explain. “I saw you. Briefly. I-I left quickly. I didn't want to interrupt your privacy.” A lie, but Howard need not know that.

Howard nods along, and then looks away. “I think I did something wrong,” he says, tears forming in his eyes. “I just don't know _why_ it's wrong...”

“Hey, hey, it's alright.” Mark rushes to his side, pulling him to lean against him. “We can figure this out. Everything's going to be alright, I promise you.” He isn't sure it will, but he hopes that Howard won't know better.


	7. Chapter 7

Gary knows he's made a mistake. In truth, he's made a long series of mistakes, starting with the first moment he eyed a man made of stone and could not force himself from thinking how much he wanted that man to obliterate him. But his mistakes have only grown worse with time, culminating in him taking that man in his mouth, whoring himself, spending without even a touch to his prick, indulging his desperate need to be taken like a woman, without even considering the consequences.

And then here is what he is doing now, dodging Howard's eye, mumbling and shuffling whenever they just meet over meals, spending as much time as possible away from their humble rooms, pouring all his stresses into the piano of the dusky bar where he works. He knows he is a coward. But what can he do? There is no taking back what happened, no apologising or annulling. All he can do is try not to dream of it again, the feel of a strong man above him and the taste of seed in his mouth, all the things that make him loathe himself so fitfully.

Howard, he knows, does not understand. Mark made him to be the image of a Greek god, and he brings those pagan ideals to a thoroughly Christian time. Perhaps there is a world in the future that may think more kindly on what he's done, but Gary does not live in that time. He lives in the here and now, and here and now, what he's done is an obscenity.

He's sure Mark is none the wiser. Mark thinks the world of him, how could he imagine what Gary has done? And so Gary feels completely comfortable to enclose Howard to his care; Mark's heart is made of gold, and Gary could not imagine him to do anything untoward with their – guest, pet, creature?

Yes, he knows by most men's standards Mark is a far greater pervert than he could ever be – he's watched dozens of pretty boys cycle through Mark's bed, whereas he himself has had only the one (but oh, what a man). But it's different. Mark does not feel the same shame he does – Gary doesn't know why not feeling shame should make it any less shameful, but it does. Mark has committed himself to live by a different standard, one where the views of man cannot touch him, and only the creator can judge him. Gary is not so brave. He still wishes to be good, to play his songs and find a wife and have sons on her, all that. He's never been a bohemian. But he can't resist how much he wants something else, and that to him is far worse than rejecting the shoulds and should-nots entirely.

He trusts Mark far more than he trusts himself, but that does not exactly solve everything. Mark cares about him deeply. He watches Gary avoid their handsome lodger, draw ever further into himself, and while he may not know, Gary can tell he is worried. "Are you alright?" he asks, smile as bright as a summer's day. "You would tell me if there was something wrong, yes?"

"Of course," Gary lies easily. On some level, he knows Mark should not be disgusted with him if he knew the truth, not the way he is with himself. And yet, while he may not be disgusted, Gary knows that if Mark knew he would see him differently, and he cannot bring himself to face that. He does not want to let this define him, not when he scarcely knows what it means.

As for Howard, Gary does not know what makes him feel more wretched, what he did to the man then, or what he is doing now. He can feel those ocean blue eyes watching him, sadly, petrified he's done something wrong - and Gary can't bring himself to tell him he hasn't, because he cannot face what he has done. It would be easier if Howard would be mad at him, shout and scream for being fucked then abandoned, but his soul - does he have a soul? - is too gentle for that. He just keeps waiting after Gary like a lonely pup, and Gary feels ever guiltier.

_He needs you_, says a voice in the back of his head, but if he tried, surely he would only defile the man further? He does not trust himself to resist temptation. Howard is better off without him, in that case.

The worst of all is how he still dreams of it. He can avoid Howard’s face as best he can in the daytime, but nothing will spare him at night. He sees them in the brilliant sun of Greece or Rome, spread across Chinese silks. In a world where there is no shame in this, no vice, only pleasure.

Howard comes to him naked from head to toe, and Gary revels in every inch of him, that body carved to give pleasure. He wants to thank him, to honour him, to fall upon his knees in worship. To fall upon his knees in general, as the memory of that cock in his mouth, the taste and smell of it, swirls through his dreamscape.

But instead Howard comes to take him in his arms, his body hard and strong above Gary's own. He kisses him, from his lips to his jaw to his belly, and Gary sinks into it with a moan. He feels small, young, delicate - the Ganymede to his Zeus, and in truth he knows he is nothing like that, but Howard tells him he's beautiful anyway.

His legs spread open and even for the Greeks, this should be shameful, but it cannot be, not when Howard holds him like he's the most precious thing in the universe. When that cock finally pushes inside him it does not hurt at all, it feels perfect, like it was always meant to be there, and Gary is filled with such bliss it's like revelation.

He spends in his sleep and wakes to the sound of moans, sickeningly covered in his own seed. Still far from reality, it takes him a moment to realise what is happening. Mark has another lover. This is far from unusual, but having just been drawn from his fantasy, Gary feels a stab of pain at it he never has before.

The moon shines brightly through his window, and Gary knows it is still the dead of night. He should roll over and go back to sleep, ignore these noises, as he has a thousand times before. But it is different now. Something raw and unsatisfied aches with him, and he needs to get closer. Closer to what, he does not know, but _closer_.

As quietly as possible he slips out of bed and treads small corridor between his room and Mark's, shivering as the cold air hits his sweat-soaked body.

Deep down Gary knows this is wrong, to spy on his friend when vulnerable like this, but he has already sinned so grievously, how could this make it worse?

When he stops and peers through the crack in the door, he realises it's a man in bed with Mark. That in and of itself is not too great a shock. Mark lies on his back, legs wrapped around this other man's waist, gasping and panting in pleasure. His nails scratch the man's shoulders. "Harder, faster, please!"

Gary's spent cock twitches against his thigh.

The man grunts in exertion, and complies, his hips pistoning expertly between Mark's legs, earning louder and more desperate moans. Gary knows exactly what they're doing, and it both shocks and thrills him.

And then as the moon shines through, Gary starts to observe more. The chiseled muscles beneath broad shoulders. The tapered curve of his hips. The bouncing curls of his hair.

But his suspicions are not confirmed until Mark gasps, and all of a sudden they flip, Mark landing on top with a cock still firmly inside him. Gary gets only the barest glimpse of a face, but it's no matter. He knows.

That's Howard. It's Howard Mark is in bed with.

And really, should he be surprised?


End file.
